


make you crazy over my touch

by plinys



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: "You wanted to see me, Captain?”





	make you crazy over my touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



> thanks to j for the beta

"You wanted to see me, Captain?”

It’s a pretense really. 

Captain Georgiou hadn’t asked to see her. In fact, she had been in the middle of a seemingly important, yet boring, comm with Captain Pike. However, when she looks up from the comm to meet Michael’s eyes, she knows interpreting wasn’t a mistake. Not when they’ve both been waiting for this all day. 

When a hand had settled low on her back on the bridge, and the Captain had called her  _ Number One  _ with that tone of voice that told Michael exactly what she had wanted.

It was something that had made Michael’s hands shake as she tucked them carefully into the pockets of her uniform, not with nervousness, but with anticipation. With need. It had seemed after that that her shift stretched on endlessly. Far too long. And when Lieutenant Saru finally came to relieve her of her duties it was not nearly soon enough. 

At times she found it almost ironic. 

Vulcans did this but once every seven years, as part of a sacred and secret ceremony. Seldom did Michael celebrate her differences from her Vulcan upbringing, but in this case, she was all to willing too. 

“Captain Pike,” she says, still meeting Michael’s eyes, dark with need that Michael feels within her own body as well, “I have to take this.”

“Yes, of cour-” Is all Pike’s holographic figure manages to get out, before the projection is shut off. 

The silence that lingers afterwards is thick with anticipation. 

“Captain, I-”

“You know you can call me Philippa in here.” 

She does know this. 

Has said the name many times before, it curling forth from her lips with hesitation at first, though now most often with ease and desperation. Using it signals a shift from Captain and Commander, to something else. To two women thrust together on a starship with no way of preventing the feelings inside of them. 

Suddenly, Michael is struck with the urge to kiss her.

The desperate need to, and as she moves forward, crossing the space between them. The Captain comes out from behind her desk to meet her. Leaning there on the edge of it, the stark silver of the desk, cut against her dark uniform. A picturesque scene. One that makes the heat inside of Michael only grow stronger. 

There’s a second there, a moment before, where Michael says, “Philippa,” into the air between them, and it all turns right as it should, right into the exact sort of moment that Michael not only wants but desperately needs.

Lips press against lips, open and needy. 

Hands brush against hands, not in a way to share thoughts, but in a desperate need to hold onto each other.

Bodies knock against bodies, a buildup of pressure that leaves Michael aching for more.

When a moan slips past her lips she is not embarrassed -though in the past she might have been- but desperate for more. Desperate to give up control to the one person she trusts to lead her steadily into the light. The one person she trusts to catch her when she falls.

And she does. 

Philippa does.

She moves them with the practiced ease of someone who has done this time and time before, and does not hesitate. She repositions them so that Michael is the one pressed against the desk, the cold metal a contrast to her overheated palms when she reaches backwards to brace and steady herself. 

“Philippa,” she says again, like it’s the only word she can say.

The only word she needs to say.

And hearing her own name, “Michael,” said in the same tone, a moment later, nearly sets Michael off.

It’s a wonder, the things her Captain’s voice can do to her. 

“I need you,” she says, suddenly, without hesitating. 

“I can tell.”

It’s not an insult, not a mocking tone, just an observation. The sort of comment she would make on the Bridge and Michael would have to pretend that it did nothing to her. It was hard enough keeping their  _ relationship  _ unofficial as far as the crew was concerned. Though it may just be the worst kept rumor on the ship.

Well, one of the many- 

She distracted from thoughts of shipboard drama by a hand against the sloping plane of her stomach, her uniform rucked up, and Michael quickly says, “Here, let me,” before pushing the standard Starfleet issue uniform onto the ground. Her pants follow a second later, Philippa’s hand moving to help rid her of them so that all Michael has to do is step out of her pants, and push them out of the way. 

She is more naked than Philippa is, something that draws goose bumps to her skin, in an instant, though they are somewhat calmed by the way the Captain’s eyes sweep, reverent, over her.

Michael is not used to being looked at in this way. 

More used to scorn or grudging respect.

But Philippa looks at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the galaxy and Michael doesn’t know what to do with that. 

She kisses Philippa, so that she stops having to think about it.

She kisses Philippa, because it’s the one thing she knows how to do.

She kisses Philippa, ready for what happens next.

Michael leans, desperate, into Philippa’s hands, so close already to the edge, another moan slipping out past her lips.

Philippa’s fingers push Michael’s standard issue undergarments out of the way, to press against her, the press inside of her. Long fingers that put pressure in exactly the places that Michael needs them to, that curl inside of her, so that all Michael can do is hold onto the edge of the desk in a desperate attempt to keep herself standing up on two feet.

She finds that she rarely wants to do anything but this. 

Her legs shake, weak and needy, as Philippa’s speeds up her fingers, her thumb moving to press against Michael’s clit as does so. A circular motion that Michael is certain she does not do well enough on her own; only Philippa seems to know her body in this way.

Only Philippa understands just what it takes to push Michael over the edge.

“Philippa,” she says, over and over again, a broken cacophony that spills from her lips. Intermixed with moans that make her thankful the Captain’s office is sound proof. 

Her noises only increase in volume when Philippa moves her fingers just so - and it’s nothing like Michael has ever experienced, something that only comes here, in these moments. The fire which had been slowly growing inside of Michael, lighting off all at once, bursting out of her in a wave of pleasure that Michael cannot stop, that she can only ride out.

Until she is left in the aftermath, leaning there against Philippa’s desk, trying to remember how to breathe.

Her studies and training comes back to her in those moments, reminding her in her fog of pleasure that she has too lungs, and she must open her mouth to let air in. 

That she must breathe.

That she must look up into Philippa’s eyes to ground herself.

That she must return the favor, it’s only polite.

Her voice is still breathless when she manages to tilt her lips up into one of her rare smiles, and says, “Allow me, my Captain,” before slipping off the edge of the desk and down onto the floor between her knees. 

It takes a moment for her words to have their effect, but they do as Michael works on undoing her Captain’s pants, and the other woman manages to speak up - “I thought we agreed on you calling me Philippa?”


End file.
